Poetry for the brave

Thomas Ward has been published in Alliterati and on Drunk Monkeys and at the moment he awaits feeback on his first novel. As well as writing he likes to travel, play music, watch films and fantasise about fighting sharks and the inevitable zombie apocalypse. He has a tumblr at www.renegadeviper.tumblr.com.  Check out his grotesque, darkly funny poem below - especially if you're a fan of Roald Dahl - but brace yourself first...

A Holiday Gift

She handed me a gift as she stepped off the train today,

and said ‘O darling how I’ve missed you!’ don’t open it until we’re away

I said ‘me too!’ and ripped it open at the station,

Full of excitement and anticipation

What ever could it be? And my imagination ran wildly,

A hat, a scarf, a painting of her and me? But in fact the texture was more like jelly

I looked at my gift and had a little think,

it looked back at me and gave a little wink

It wasn’t expected but then neither was she,

This wife of mine, always playing tricks on me

I laughed and cried ‘haha very funny!’

But when I touched one it felt rather gummy

I felt a shiver and stopped where I stood

‘Oh darling I found them out in the wood, thought of you and polished them good!

It wasn’t wine, shoes or cologne,

A bag of eyeballs is what she’d brought home

‘O darling thank you, what luck!

You shouldn’t have, no, it’s too much!

I only brought you a bouquet of flowers

And you’ve brought me a man half devoured!’

‘A woman’ said she and I felt a shiver

It started in my stomach and crept past my liver,

‘Anne helped me find them, isn’t that a surprise’

Anne was my secretary, with silky smooth thighs

‘Yes I invited her along,

What a lovely girl, I thought we could bond!

It was all going well, we had a terrific week,

The only thing that ruined it is that she talks in her sleep’

The station stood still and colours began to swirl,

I looked around, where was this other girl?

‘Anne stayed there?’ I asked timidly

My wife smiled, shook her head and nodded at me

‘She helped me find your gift, she’s got such sharp eyes!

Sparkly and green like emeralds in disguise!’

I looked at the bag and Anne looked back at me,

I imagined her body buried under a tree

Slugs and flies in the hollows of her eyes

All because I’d ran mine up her thighs

I tried to calm myself and get a handle,

‘Splendid my dear, we’ll put them on the mantle!’

‘Oh splendid!’ she said and my shoulder felt her head

We walked arm in arm and in my hand something dead

‘I’ve missed you so much my dear little Fred,

Next year, won’t you come with me instead?’

Thomas Ward

Inc: Not a dusty old book!

We've had a lovely review from BlogAndBuySale, a site that showcases artists and designers.

They say: "We thought you could only find good poetry in dusty old books, how wrong we were! ... We were blown away by the poetic masterpiece... A great fourth installment of inc.magazine bringing poetry into the 21st century and making it fun".


We say: Read the review in full here, marvel at BlogAndBuy's inspiring array of creative goods, and then without further ado grab yourself a copy of inc. #4 for just £4 including p&p right here!

Poems from Sam Bentley-Toon

We met Sam as he was traveling in the Himalayas, and left him sleeping in a cave on a bed of bracken with just goats for company (we'd taken only tent). The goats would unfortunately attempt to eat the bracken when he wasn't looking. These vivid poems are from a selection written during his time in India and Australia. Enjoy!


1. Power-cut at dusk

Headlights falter
as cars
slalom daintily
down the black
board of the mountain.

Fireflies bridge the valley’s gap
trailing ticker tapes
of greenish stars.

With a gasp
power comes back.

The hills abruptly stage
the nested lights
of tiny settlements
and darkness is repealed
like a new struck seam
of diamonds or
like opening your eyes
to find the same darkness
awash with stars.

2. Dog

On a high mountain road
we hit a dog.
It flew beneath the wheel
like a pale bird.

It made two thuds like a
Pothole and was dead.

I looked back and saw another dog
standing in the wake of the event,
its lips pursed like a wolf
in a howl of grief.

The driver glanced at
the rear view mirror.
We continued alongside
the clear cool river.

3. Goat

Two of the drums
are the pure pulse
of the goat’s temples.

The third is the dirty mind
of the man with a knife.

Goat-skinned, hormonal,
the drums stack-up
their beats into the open
heart of the sky.

Building, building, bloody and reeling.
The goat screams from the root
of its held legs
and lengthens its stainless neck.

The scorpion-arch of the man’s arm falls
As the drum sticks kick back.
Three blows

and the head is cleanly separated from the animal.
The corpse bucks and bleeds a puddle.

A man smiles a human smile.
Crimson and opaque
it glints between the cobbles.

Lastly, in silence,
a dog bows its head and laps up the spillage,
gratefully and completely.

Sam Bentley-Toon

Why not read inc. on the beach?

We're pleased to announce that we have a new stockist for inc. magazine. It's a brand new cafe and small press bookshop just off Brick Lane with an excellent range of books and prints for sale, run by a friendly guy called Chaz. Check out the work by Tom Edwards and Barnie Page, who contributed to issue 3 of inc. Poetry lovers should also try to get down to Clinic, an evening of poetry, art and projections held at Beach on Monday 22nd August.


Beach London
20 Cheshire Street
(just off Brick Lane)
London E1 CEH
www.beachlondon.co.uk

Poetry from Will Davies

Here are a few poems from Will Davies - a poet who recently got in touch. We really like his stuff and if you do too then check out his blog here: JWR Davies

1.Rubble

Tropical fish flit about like light through stained glass,
flickering like a fire, desperate and insane.
Like the ramblings of a drunk, circling the drain,
there is poetry in sadness in the crumbling refrain,
a flash of perfection and then nothing again.

2.Bittersweet Therapy

You, the last person I spoke to before I went to sleep,
the first thing I thought about when I woke up.
You, the person I wanted to share all of my news with,
my shelter, my consoler my trusted council.

But, You, tore pieces from me, and left, and I remained...
a tattered mess, a sightless sight of unrest.
a pile of cotton, a mangled toy, you left...
but you insisted you hadn't.

and in the end I suppose I left,
I suppose I ripped out my own useless appendix,
shredded it for bedding and span my wheel.

The truth is, I think you know the truth,
that an omission is a lie,
so you said goodbye.

3.Awake

The smell of wood, the taste of coffee,
the wrench out of my bed in the morning
still ringing in my ears.
In floods the new day
through the gap around a door,
too small for its frame,
hello brain, hello head ache, hello morning.
Out are the dreams
of a world so perfect, yet unintelligible,
slowly as the blur comes into focus
and I wipe the sleep from my eyes,
there is day, there is work,
there is a new piece
to the same puzzle
that has puzzled me for years.


4.rejected

cast out and dejected, piling up my plate with misery,
just dry logs to fuel poetry that no one will read,
writing my will in the form of a free verse tragedy,
shooting up in the hall, veins flood with love,
and again i'm high above a cloud
pretending i'm weightless...
untouchable.
and again i'm thrown back down,
vomited up, stale and staggering,
heart burn, and tooth ache,
and a talentless void in my gut.




5.untitled

bitter snow flakes that burn,
with the warmth of a wood floors bathed in summer sun,
such high chairs to mount up on,
tact up on to the rubber walls,
pictures, and tickets and memories of fun.

alas i lack just lately dreams on which to run,
the cogs are clicking through the motion,
trundling along, fumbling for the starting gun,
skating on a chalk board, bathed in summer sun,
remorseful of my memories knowing what they become.